


A Library of Roses

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Flowers, HP Het Minifest 2020, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minister for Magic Hermione Granger, Older Characters, Pre-Het, Widowed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: Hermione has the seed of an idea, but she needs the help of someone from her distant past to bring it into full bloom.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	A Library of Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fractured](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fractured/gifts).



> Written for the 2020 [HP Het](http://hphet.dreamwidth.org) Minifest, using Failedfracture's prompt: _She loves roses, and he has a garden of them._ Thanks to hannelore for beta-reading and to themightyflynn for organizing the fest!

It has been over thirty years since the first—and last—time Hermione visited Malfoy Manor. She was a prisoner then, a terrified child. Now she Apparates onto the grounds of her own free will, a grown woman in clean, professional dress with her softly graying hair pulled back in a sleek bun.

She holds her head high as she strides past the manor, bypassing it and heading towards the back gardens. She mentally prepared herself for this, but finds it wasn't necessary; she's no longer afraid of the house, which has fallen into gentle decay, like a once-powerful man now slumped and fragile with age. In this hazy midsummer afternoon, it reminds her of a Muggle haunted house with the lights turned on—all its terrors revealed to be nothing but strung-up models, frightening only in the darkness.

The house may be neglected, but the gardens are far from it. Filled with flowering shrubs and shady oaks, the grounds evoke an idyllic countryside, not a rich man's perfectly manicured and sterile lawn. White peacocks no longer roam here; instead, plain-clothed wrens and sparrows go about their natural business, darting from ground to tree and filling the warm air with their merry voices, overlaid on the background buzz of bees round the geraniums.

It's a pretty scene, but one player is missing from the stage: the gardener whose meticulous care is spoken of in the arrangement of each flowerbed and in the healthy green of each tuft of grass. To find him, Hermione must venture further into the estate, down a path that curves round a retaining wall, and finally to the rose garden.

The first sight of it takes Hermione's breath away. It is laid out before her in terraces that sweep down the hill on either side of a set of stone steps, like the wings of a great bird, feathered in rainbows. Dozens of rose bushes, scores of them, red, pink, yellow... A pair of swallows swoop down overhead and fly over the brook that marks the outer boundary, and then away, disappearing toward the patchwork fields in the distance.

Down near the brook, Hermione sees him at last: a man bent over a flower bed, the sun beating down on the curve of his back and reflecting off the pale gold of his hair.

She concentrates on her breath as she walks down the long, uneven stairway, taking in the rich, heavy scent of flowers all around her. She thinks she sees him stiffen in response to the sound of footsteps behind him, but he doesn't turn round until she is right beside him, casting a shadow over his work.

Malfoy twists round to look up at her, his crows-feet eyes squinting. "You're in my light, Minister Granger," he says.

"Sorry." She steps round him, over his feet in their worn brown work boots. She wishes she'd worn more sensible shoes herself; her arches are aching after the walk down. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

He lets out a short, noncommittal hum and goes back to plucking dead leaves and spent blooms from the small bush before him.

"I imagine you received my owls," she begins again.

"I imagine I did," he says into the bushes.

Hermione feels a flash of heat that has nothing to do with the June sun on her face. "And were you ever planning to _respond_ to them?"

"I'd thought about it."

Pressing her lips together hard, Hermione draws in a slow breath through her nose. How wrong Harry was! Malfoy hasn't changed a bit. "I suppose you thought it would be funny to make me come all the way down here? To make me beg for your help in person?"

He sits back on his heels and peers up at her. Not smirking or sneering—far from it. His expression is neutral, and there is something in his eyes like resignation. "No," he says carefully, "I was just putting it off. It's not particularly pleasant to be reminded, once again, that the only thing that makes me useful is the worst thing I've ever done."

"Then you refuse to help," she concludes, unsure anymore how angry she ought to be.

With a sigh, Draco gets to his feet and works a small incantation on the rose bush, perking up its remaining leaves in a swirl of glittering life-green magic. "It's an interesting proposal," he admits, brushing the loose dirt from his palms. "Reach out to traditionalist purebloods, try to persuade them to come into the progressive tent?" He turns and heads down the row to another plant in need of care. "And here I thought the plan was just to wait for all the old bastards to die off."

She hesitates, then follows, picking her steps carefully among the rough stones of the path. "You might be surprised at how many young purebloods are as bigoted as their grandparents. They don't know the dangers. They don't know the things we saw—the things we suffered—when we were their age." Her eye is drawn for a moment to the turrets of the manor, just visible over the wall.

Stopping at a tall bush with blossoms of bright vermilion, he blows out a scoffing breath between his lips. "And you think they'd listen to an old man like me?"

"They might not," Hermione admits. "But it's our responsibility to try."

Draco squints up at the azure sky, his lips curling into a smile. "There you go again. Always trying to make the world a better place."

It could sound like he was making fun of her, but it doesn't. In his voice she thinks she actually hears a note of rueful admiration.

"Well, making the wizarding world a better place _is_ literally my job," she points out.

He shakes his head wryly, turning to the plant and picking the dried leaves away from a particularly gorgeous bloom. "You're a politician of a different breed, Minister Granger." Cupping the rose gently in his hand, he cranes his neck down to inhale its scent deeply. For a moment, his eyes close in bliss; he looks the way Hermione feels when she opens a rare, nostalgic book.

"They're beautiful," she ventures. "Do you crossbreed them yourself?"

He nods and goes back to his work. "This one was Astoria's favourite, because of the colour. Bit of nonsense, if you ask me... Whose favourite colour is orange, anyway?"

Hermione thinks, but doesn't say, that Draco's wife must have been a woman of unique tastes.

"What's yours?" Draco suddenly asks.

"My favourite colour?" Hermione hasn't been asked that since she was little, and is startled into telling the truth. "Red."

The corner of Draco's mouth quirks upward. "Of course." He turns to the other side of the path, finding a bush dripping with roses of deep Gryffindor crimson. Deftly he cuts one off, trimming the thorns from its stem before he offers it to her.

"Oh, I— Thank you." As she takes it, their fingers brush together. The rose is crowded with ruffled petals, and it feels silken-soft against her nose and lips as she samples its scent, lush with perfume. She's always loved roses, but it's been many years since she's been given one.

"A truce, then?" he says. His arms are crossed, his weight back on one foot, more awkward than defensive. "I'd like to help you. If I can."

"A truce," she agrees, and extends her right hand, holding his rose in the other.

After a moment, he takes it, and shakes it firmly, respectfully.

She finds herself surprised at how much she likes the way that feels.


End file.
